Us
by Upstart Crow
Summary: Brutus begins to lose sight of himself in the long months between Caesar's assassination and the battle at Philippi. Cassius takes note, but doesn't know quite what to say anymore.


**Us**

He was properly drunk tonight, a rare sight and one that did not bode well. The eyes that knew him well enough to gauge and pass judgement across the dinner table all noted the abrupt, irritated jerk to his head, the uneven sway to his step, the grating curtness to his speech that contradicted everything people knew about him even when they knew him less than well. Well and clear, people thought without saying, eyes down at the table as they ate, that something was amiss, or else he'd gone and lost it with the waiting.

The other general noted the little abrupt outliers and filed them away with the helpless, wordless mechanic patience he'd had to learn rather than naturally inherit. He was not meant for sitting still and letting things pass and his restless shoulders said so as he glanced up and down the small table in their smaller tent, but really there was very little he could do. Even if it weren't dinner, he reasoned, saying anything would be a flat-out bloody waste of time. There was no talking to him with drink involved, but that didn't make sitting there and watching him grow haughty and incoherent any easier. A few people who were the type to got easily offended and pretentious right back – gods knew it did no harm, really, what harm was there to do, but it made everything messy and stupid and the general eventually up and made his excuses early.

The night bit cold enough outside to do more than suggest the onset of winter, although he tugged his cloak closer and tried to ignore it as he put his head down and plunged out on a walk to make himself feel useful. Armies were lots of work that he didn't particularly enjoy or want, quite frankly, but they gave him things to do and inane questions to ask of equally inane people and so he burned time wandering and looking important. Armies also typically implied uniforms, but he'd quickly learned he hated wearing armour and he hadn't yet needed to. Waiting was not a physical fight by any means, although often he wished otherwise. It would be something to do, anyway.

The foothills where they camped were neither scenic nor hospitable, but he liked the view from the highest point of their hill well enough any time of the day. In the first half of the evening as it was now, the exact hour a vague notion rather than a number, the moon was busy stretching itself thin illuminating the valley below and setting the river into a dull cast of liquid silver while the stars burned cold and impressive across the curved expanse of sky. A disorienting thing, the country sky. Maybe people in the capital would think differently if they knew how small they were in comparison. The general lifted an incredulous eyebrow at himself and snorted so his breath frosted back at his full face as he trudged across the shortcut path to the other bit of encampment. Very bloody likely, indeed.

He heard the raised voices from the officers' tent before he pushed through the trees and got there again. The few other people out in the cold passed with their heads down, leaving it alone like soldiers did, lucky bastards. Sighing irritably, he ducked into the tent, which was considerably warmer than the outside but not much more hospitable.

The other one was standing up stiff but unsteady, an awful, fierce look on his narrow face. He looked gaunter than he was in the firelight but not by much, the other general knew, not by much at all in truth with their supply situation the way it was, although the illusion held up convincingly to the other three men in the little room as he leaned forward, putting a hand down beside his plate to steady himself, and snarled something stumbling and clumsily profane.

Brutus, the general said sharply. He stayed standing by the entrance. Enough, now.

He looked up in that abrupt way he had on, the one that suggested he could be dangerous despite who he was and what people thought of him, and stared at him hard and blank. The other three exchanged glances, all biting angry tongues, and glared accusations as one to the newcomer who hadn't been gone longer than a few minutes. Your problem, Cassius, but what isn't. They were hungry and therefore eager to blame and although it made sense he narrowed his eyes back.

When it became clear that no one was going to move, he went over and grabbed Brutus roughly by the collar, dragging him outside without a word. Don't, Brutus mumbled, fumbling pointlessly, but although he was the bigger of the two his strength was imprecise and half-hearted and so his companion ignored his feeble protests about image and decency and pulled him after him. The other officers said nothing; family business, almost, as it were.

The cold made Brutus stumble on the footpath better suited to the horses' hooves that had packed it hard down, but the general clenched his jaw and kept him upright as they hurried to the other part of the encampment at a too-fast march. Stop it, Brutus mumbled, his chin bumping clumsily at his chest. You're being-

Shut up.

His head tipped back in genuine surprise, dark eyes widening slightly and nostrils flaring just so in fine-boned silhouette against the blazing sky that could be seen through the gap in the trees, and then their pace jerked him onwards and the moment of stillness went away. He honestly didn't know what the fuss was about, the other man realised with some disgust. A mind like his was fine-tuned too precisely to allow for alcohol. Some people existed at their best and truest when drink showed them for what they were, but with Brutus it only muddled him, rubbing at the edges of what he was and blurring the picture. Cassius hated him blindly and hard like this enough so the force of the feeling made him want to throw up and squeeze his eyes shut against the dizzying sight of himself.

Brutus rarely slept in his cold, plain tent, often curling up and falling asleep in the officers' tent when the day's work bled into the night, and the neglect of his own space showed. Cassius muttered a curse and dropped him on his cot, turning his back on him before their eyes could meet and kicking around for a torch. The eventual light licked feebly at the edges of the tent, casting a thin illumination in the corners of mouths and eyes.

When he finally faced him, Brutus was watching him through half-closed eyes, leaning unsteadily against a tent pole where he sat with his head lolled back. Why'd you do that, he asked abruptly before the other one could say anything.

The question made Cassius shake his head in barely-contained frustration. He had thought originally that he'd get him here and leave, but even drunk Brutus had to insist upon being complicated and arbitrary. He ran a frustrated hand through his sandy hair, reluctant yet to take off his gloves in part because the practical bit of him tugged at him to go and also because it was still too cold in the tent. Brutus, he noticed, was only wearing the robe he'd had on at dinner.

You're cold, he said flatly, stating the obvious in an attempt at cooling his temper. Brutus waved a vague hand and scowled.

Damn you, Cassius – answer th'_question_.

Answer- Temper would not be tempered and Cassius felt his hands curl tight together at Brutus's tone. As if he didn't know, damn him, as if he had the _authority_ to demand an answer – give a senator a knife and he thought he wielded the world despite all better intentions and ideas of nobility, certainly – but Brutus was always like this when he had some drink in him, _always_, and sometimes it made Cassius wonder.

You're making a real pig of yourself, he ground out after a moment. I'm not – I shouldn't have to look after you like that. I'm tired of it.

Brutus snorted derisively and rolled his haughty head back, attempting a sneer. You wouldn't have't any other way…fucking mother hen. I can take perfect care of myself.

Cassius stared at him and wanted to hurt him, suddenly. It would be easy to do, him lolling there drunk, like pushing over an old dog. They had both done it before, weren't unblooded paper-pushing senators anymore and never would be again – that thought came up whenever he got angry now, part giddily satisfying and part frightening. He still remembered exactly how it had felt and how he had held the knife awkwardly with his thumb pressing hard against his index finger, and although of course he and Brutus never spoke of such things he knew the other one remembered it exactly so too. When he squinted and look dead-on at what exactly was going through his head, he knew it was time to go and turned decisively on his heel to leave the tent.

Wait – Cassius. Wait.

It would've been easy to walk on and pretend he hadn't heard – Brutus wouldn't follow, surely, couldn't bother if he tried – but instinct and old habit made him hesitate just long enough that it was obvious the quiet plea had caught up with him. He glanced back and saw Brutus hunched over wiping his nose hard on the back of one hand, the other clenched hard in his own close-cropped hair. It was too dark to know if there were tears involved. Cassius paused, wanting to curse him for doing this and needing to see if he was all right even after all this. Half of this thing had been them looking after one another and that had been all right, but now it felt as though it was him picking Brutus up again and again and dragging him after him towards gods knew what.

Would you stay for a bit, the other one asked after a moment. He could scrape out a calm tone when he tried even when he was like this. Cassius might've been impressed had it not gotten old so quickly. I spoke wrongly.

Cassius tilted his head. Please, Brutus growled, hunching his long limbs tighter into himself, his hands clenching against his skull. I'm sorry.

What for, Cassius wanted to ask to hear him say he didn't remember. Walking away still felt easy and quick – a novelty, as they'd long since left anything simple and corruptible – but although instinct said to think otherwise, there was a desperate edge to Brutus's voice that he had only heard once or twice before that held him at the entrance to the little tent. It was ironic, something at the back of his mind remarked as he stared blindly at the tent flap. As a general rule, Brutus had always been the proud introvert in that he would never be the one to ask for time alone. The city makes every face a six-month hypocrite, they'd wryly recite together as they did these days if he brought it up aloud, but he decided not to comment as he reluctantly turned and paced over to sit carefully on the stool by the writing desk.

They were quiet together, each listening closely to the other one's breathing without letting on in the cold stillness of the tent. You're tired, Brutus murmured after a while. He did not elaborate, but Cassius knew he'd heard it just now in his breath rather than consciously studied it throughout the night. He narrowed his eyes and shrugged one shoulder.

So are you.

Yes, Brutus admitted, his voice muffled still by his hands. He sighed and shifted again, but the admission seemed to have somewhat muted the curtness in his movements. Cassius watched his dark frame rock forward and separate itself from the shadow of the tent wall for a moment, his sharp silhouette swaying and blurring in the gloom as he bit his lip and ducked his head. I'm sorry, he said quietly again.

You're drunk, is what you are.

I _know_, he snarled abruptly, the savage temper that had blundered through in the officer's tent finding clarity for a moment before falling away again. He'd never learned how to be properly angry. Cassius, for the life of him, still hadn't decided whether to laugh or shake his incredulous head at this, but it suited the other one all right. Brutus shook his head as if a little bemused himself and pushed his helpless hand through his hair again. I've had too much, he mumbled, a dull guess.

Cassius exhaled slowly and silently bit his tongue on asking why when he knew that better than Brutus himself did. Brutus preferred to pretend that psychoanalysis did not exist; it quietly revealed a person's flaws and therefore was no honourable man's game, but Cassius had long since let that title go in favour of the practical efficiency that people knew him for. Brutus was known as an honourable man, or at least he had been before they'd ended up as the outlaws and exiles they pretended they weren't – it fitted him inexplicably and unequivocally, though, and Cassius wouldn't have it any other way. He said none of this, waiting instead for Brutus to make the situation more bearable before standing heavily to do it himself.

Dropping his cloak on his vacated chair, the smaller of the two senators lit the candles on the writing desk and dropped to his knees to search around for some more blankets, shoving Brutus's feet out of the way for a glance around under the cot. Finding one that looked as though it hadn't left its strict folds since being hastily packed back in the city, he threw it over his companion's shoulders and folded his own arms across his chest, hunching forward to prop his elbows on his knees. That better? he asked without looking, staring instead at the pathetic little candle.

Mmm.

All right, then.

Brutus was quiet for a little while, but the drink and his own exhaustion made him clipped and abrupt and liable to come out with unlikely things. I never thought I'd make a good soldier, he mused after a bit. Can't even…drink like one. Can I.

Not particularly.

You can, though. You'd be – you _are_ a real general, aren't you. He dropped a hand from his forehand to clumsily adjust the blanket and actually turned his head to glance at Cassius with his tired eyes, grey in the dark. I thought you'd be, he said after a moment, like he'd decided it. I knew you'd like it – soldiering.

The other one narrowed his eyes. I do not _like_ it. We're hardly cut out for this – you say so all the time. War is too crude. We're not right for it. Et cetera.

And everyone else believes noble old you when you say so yourself, Brutus said with a certain amount of drunken slyness. But everyone else isn't me, and noble old you…I know better, don't I.

You're drunk, Cassius said again, and was quiet for a while.

It had taken a bit for them to figure the other one out. One thought the other was an old-fashioned young man, walking hypocrisy, and the other thought that one had an empty, efficient type of ambition where honour should be. It initially was a straightforward circular dead end of a match, but one of them – he couldn't remember who – had one day looked again and recklessly decided otherwise. There was nothing particularly noble or eventful about that turning point other that it had happened decisively and somehow gotten them to this kind of deep-set, silent understanding in the shit-end middle of nowhere. One thing for another. Cassius sighed.

Do you think we're going to die?

No, he said instinctively without thinking, because that was what you told drunken men when they asked those types of questions. There was admittedly no imminent battle, although everyone knew it was only a matter of however much time they and the ones back in the city decided to spend. It was arguably an answer that would stand up in court.

Liar, Brutus said amiably.

I'm not.

You don't _know_.

Cassius sat up against so they were level, although he still couldn't quite bring himself to look over and confirm the fact that he still wasn't quite there. Instead, he tilted his head back and exhaled frozen steam that stood out fleetingly against the looming canopy of the tent. I thought you did, he said, matching his companion's odd matter-of-fact tone. Our noble cause validates our victory – that's right, isn't it?

Brutus's head went back too, and they watched their own breathing for a moment. No, he said finally. It really comes down to numbers. You say so all the time.

He sounded genuinely depressed at the idea, and the admission startled the other even though they both knew his own idealism did not really stretch so far when sober. It was quietly out of character and therefore all the more distressing. Cassius did not know what to say and stared down at his feet, wondering if it was worth reassuring someone with his kind of drunken lucidity after all.

A noise, footfalls outside, and an official announcement from outside the tent using both their names – both of them insisted on military formalities because they didn't know any better, or rather were too afraid of a profession neither of them fully understood to suggest otherwise. They listened, heads tilted at opposing angles, Cassius glancing at his sullen-faced companion when the nameless soldier had finished his report about how many had come from the city this evening.

There you are – numbers. He said it bracingly, hoping to encourage despite himself, but Brutus only shrugged. I should go meet them, Cassius added after a moment, ducking his head a little to peer outright into the other one's face.

We'll both go.

You're in no state.

There you go again…

You know who they want to see, he said matter-of-factly, slowly pushing himself up from the cot and turning to face Brutus so his back blocked the feeble light and warmth. Brutus the Noble Conspirator Who Would Be Saviour of the Republic – it's always the same crowd who makes the pilgrimage to join the Sacred Cause. I'll say you're ill.

Brutus squinted up at him. In this distorted light, the uneven stubble raking his hollow cheeks made him look even more unkempt than he was. You're not angry with me, then? he asked thickly.

No, Cassius said. He wasn't sure if he meant it but walked out of the tent anyway, following the soldier's retreating back into the darkness towards camp. To his slight surprise, Brutus stumbled out after him, his head bobbing purposefully in a dogged drunken way that said he was coming one way or another. People came from the city all the time wanting to see them both – standing together, perhaps, they looked like the statues the young self-made idealists would have stand in the capital still held by their enemies. Cassius wasn't sure if he could also be called an idealist. He remembered being angry but very little else, although despite his scorn for abstract notions he wouldn't have confessed as much to his companion. Brutus still, infuriatingly, held a great store by ideas.

They walked in silence across the frozen hard-packed ground, picking out the path of least resistance made by stomping soldier's feet, one keeping an eye and a hand on the other in silence still. It would be natural to fill the space up with grumbling, but they were past that, perhaps, Brutus in the strange place that he was and Cassius wherever else that space allowed him. When they reached the clearing with the main tents, Brutus shrugged off his companion's steadying hand, both of them understanding his absurd need to appear presentable even in his present condition without having to discuss it. Cassius was past judging now, or perhaps lacking the strength to fully care anymore. It occurred to him that it was very late; perhaps he was simply too exhausted.

Three young men, a decade younger than the pair of them at a stretch, stood hunching uncertain shoulders in shabby travelling clothes before the officers' tent. Their proper soldiers were mostly abed as per orders, or whatever it was, but a few of the officers they'd deemed of higher rank still passed at this hour because they could. Only a few of them spared second glances at the newcomers. The men would, Cassius thought detachedly, undoubtedly find this unnerving. Most people who made their way here expected more of a welcome on principle, but truly there was very little breath to spare atop these barren hills. Bodies were bodies. Army terms and simple – good enough.

Brutus stared, half-haughty now that there were people who thought him an aristocrat present, and hung back saying nothing. A quick glance around told Cassius that the officers he'd been arguing with had deserted the place for their respective tents, making the noise and the quarrel a memory; he let Brutus stand by himself and stepped up to be the diplomatic one for once.

Salve; welcome, gentlemen, he said, a nod for each word. You honour us with your presence. You've come a long way. The obvious was enough for tonight.

The one who seemed to be in charge, a bearded lean hungry-looking type with a permanent slouch, dipped his head in return. He was a permanent twenty-something, just looking at him, a taut big-boned jackalish type who'd bite if it pleased him – politics-not-war for this one, Cassius reckoned, and he usually guessed right about such things when his closest companion reasoned otherwise with his permanent rose-tinted bias. We're honoured ourselves, he mumbled. He looked like a mumbler, and a flattering one at that. In the city, people still talk of noble Brutus who slew the tyrant, he said, and they bowed their heads together as though in a play, prompted weary puppets.

Well, I am not noble Brutus. He shrugged. But grateful all the same.

A mistake, sir; my apologies. Where is the great senator…?

They had not seen him before in the flesh, Cassius realised – he'd grown a hint of a beard down the sides of gaunter cheeks that looked more pronounced than they were from where he skulked in the outskirts of the sparse firelight, but he was still so irrefutably himself that Cassius barely noticed the little physical details. He even drank the same way, although lately with this kind of genuine depression added to his usual lack of technique that made him infuriating and utterly incommunicable. His friend could not remember, exactly, how they had used to drink as senators – undoubtedly it had been more pretentious then, less about the alcohol than what everyone else was wearing, but that was the city or at least had been. He stared at the young man before him and couldn't decide what the place was like now, looking at him.

Here, my most humble service, Brutus said finally in his slow, deliberate slur, swaying where he stood from stubbornly planted ankles. Cassius watched three sets of hungry eyes widen and flick up to the man who'd been standing there all this while, a stoic hero's presence already, no doubt, in their self-assured minds. A few minutes ago, he realised with a spark of guarded curiosity, he would've walked away in disgust and condemned the impending conversation as a disaster, but now he found himself watching with an odd, detached interest. Three bodies were bodies for the army and statistics no matter where they came from. Ideology and hero worship would do these boys no good.

Brutus glanced up at him briefly before speaking –_You're not angry with me, then?_ – and taking up the slight hunch-shoulder defensive position he had about him when having a conversation with someone he mistrusted. He mistrusted people who knew his name, especially when he was drunk. Cassius rubbed his gloved hands together absently and tried to recall if he'd ever used his companion's family name. Once, perhaps, to provoke him, but he hadn't played that kind of manipulation game in a while now and the memory felt jolting and out of place. He'd been known for that sort of thing, before. Someone told him shortly before he left the city that soldiers did the same thing, not to worry, but he had yet to be fully convinced – certainly actors did, but soldiering was genuine work and tiring. It had a straightforwardness that made him the kind of weary he'd also seen in Brutus. Perhaps that was it that had worn them both down to what they were now, whatever that was.

He watched the three newcomers talk uncertainly to his companion, whose chin drooped nearly to his chest as his over-bright dark eyes watched them through layers of what was not confusion so much as induced apathy. They made no difference. There had been plenty like them. Neither of them had minded the flattery at first, really, had thought it a sure indication of success, but success, as Brutus had oddly put in the tent, was no longer measured in words or noble causes.

Brutus' dilated pupils, caught dark and soft in the torch-glow of the officer's tent, swung and caught Cassius' after a minute or so, his gaze searching and fixing there in the first profound lack of restlessness the other one had seen in him all evening. The jackal-faced boy still talked, his head thrust aggressively forward in hopes of snatching The Great Senator's attention and forcefully imparting something profound, but all this was already so many matters of war rather than real talk and Brutus abruptly looked tired of the fighting that hadn't yet begun. Each of them saw the other think it and smiled in small, self-conscious togetherness.

They excused themselves after a while, leaving the slightly putout city travellers to a spare soldier's tent and the officers' tent where Brutus often slept dark and quiet. Cassius helped steady his companion's weaving walk with a guiding hand as before, but the way back had no real purpose, no rush, and therefore the drink didn't matter so much this time. Trusting the slight pressure of the hand at his arm without mentioning it, Brutus tipped his head back and stared open-mouthed at the fierce expanse of flaming white stars, letting his legs walk beneath him as his eyes went high, high.

Beautiful, he said. He only said things like that when he was drunk, but Cassius didn't mind those bits as much.

I suppose so.

Can't see them like that in the city.

No. Certainly not.

It's too bad… He frowned slightly, swaying them both to a halt and circling a few uncertain steps with his head still thrown back. Too bad…we have to come all the way out here to see things like this.

Cassius caught both his hands to steady him as he tipped; Brutus lowered his head reluctantly to acknowledge the touch, meeting his gaze with an air of detached amusement about his narrow features. Still with the drink in him, maybe, but he looked more like himself out here with the night breeze tugging at the dark hair grown a little too long for a proper politician and a quietly satisfied grin finding its way into the angles of his face.

But it's hardly practical to be out here, Cassius reminded him wryly, using something he'd said recently against him. Hardly productive to eventual victory and permanently toppling the tyrants for the good of the republic. Their greatest concern – it was all they ever talked about these days, he realised belatedly.

Brutus hesitated, his eyes narrowing in slow thoughtfulness. Surely we can indulge ourselves…just for a bit, he said after a moment, leaning conspiratorially close enough that their foreheads nearly touched to whisper in an odd, fierce tone. I know we're not supposed to.

We can't afford to. _You_ say so all the time. Otherwise we don't have a chance of winning.

No. His husky whisper turned genuinely sad, a bolt of clear, unobstructed feeling that made Cassius pause and meet his dark gaze, their breath mutually held as they stared seriously at one another. But we miss a lot of ourselves, sometimes.


End file.
